


Gifts For The Grinch

by veilofnight



Category: How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000), How the Grinch Stole Christmas! - Dr. Seuss
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Reader-Insert, Shippy Gen, Wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veilofnight/pseuds/veilofnight
Summary: "One man's toxic sludge is another man's potpourri!"
Relationships: The Grinch/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Gifts For The Grinch

You headed up Mt. Crumpit on foot with a little leather handbag of miscellaneous goodies for the Grinch. It felt immoral to use his tunnel system without permission, and you didn’t want your gifts to break anyway. This was an expected visit, but he didn’t explicitly tell you which way to come. On foot, though, you thought, would make the most sense. It wasn’t very cold that day elsewhere, but Mt. Crumpit was always covered in blisteringly cold snow. Climbing the last little cliff, you made your way to the entrance of his lair. You shuffled to the door and knocked softly without a word. You waited a moment with no answer. You knocked once again, this time with a bellowed shout to be sure that he heard you, “Mr. Grinch! It’s [Y/N]!” You waited a little longer again, wondering what the hold up was. “I brought gifts,” you murmured looking down at your feet. A booming voice made your head perk up.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” you heard him shout from inside. After a small moment more, he opened the door and looked down at you. “Hello...What have we here?” he said slyly, eyeing and poking your brown leather bag, which was shut tight with a golden clasp. 

“Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” you declared, “just a small token of my appreciation.”

“Well, come on in, dear!” he said with a silly smile. The Grinch was selfish and hostile at times, but never needlessly nasty to you. You found his goofy antics funny and charming. Regardless of what was said about him, he truly was not a bad guy. You had hung out briefly before, and he didn’t seem to mind your kind words or the occasional small gesture of endearment, but you were not particularly close or anything, besides the fact that he was one of the very few people who he would allow into his presence on a regular basis. When you walked in, things were the same as you had last seen them: trash and clothes all over the floor. Now, though, you could smell something that did not quite smell like the garbage that was usual in the Grinch’s cave. It smelled quite good; sweet, in fact. You closed the door behind you and your green acquaintance walked on into his abode while you stood just inside the doorway thinking on this new aroma. He took his time donning his little sheer robe as if you were a regular. In truth, you had only been over a few times, but it felt as though he was not going to change his routine for just any young person. It wasn’t a sign that he was comfortable with you any more than it was a sign that he didn’t feel the need to impress you. Max, the Grinch's old dog, ran underfoot as you stepped forward a little. It almost made you stumble. You clutched your bag and snapped from your focus on the bakery type smell. "You wanted to talk to me about something?" the Grinch said.

"Yessir. Maybe you don't know it, but there are a lot of people who think you should be living in better conditions, and I'm definitely one of them. I brought you things for your...house," you said hesitantly.

"Oh [Y/N]," he sighed and rolled his eyes, "You know I really don't like stuff like this," he talked dramatically, flinging his fuzzy fingers about, "You can't just expect me to-" 

_"Sir,"_ you interrupted. He paused immediately. You were stern and direct with this, possibly more so than you had ever been with him. You unclamped the golden latch on your bag and began to pull out a small book. It was a cookbook. 

"What is that?" the Grinch snarled.

"It's a cookbook!" you exclaimed to him. You were excited today to finally see him try to make his own freshly cooked food. I could bring him the ingredients here, you thought, and we could cook together. "It's for real food!" You even sported a smile.

"I've had my fair share," he sneered with a disgusted expression, "and let me tell you, it is not worth it." Just then, you noticed that the scent in the air began to change. What was then a lovely warm smell had become one of a burning baked good. Max started to bark in alarm.

"Mr. Grinch," you said, "what's that smell?" Before you could ask, the Grinch was across the cave, replacing his sheer robe with a white and pink dotted baker's apron with red hearts on the front. 

He tied the apron around his waist and bellowed, "Shield your eyes, honey! You won't need to see this!" Max whimpered and hid behind your legs. Unexpectedly, the Grinch quickly slipped on 2 dotted hearted oven mitts and pulled out a moist yellow cake from a conventional looking oven in his otherworldly lair. The edges to the cake were burnt, but it otherwise looked completely salvaged. He sat the cake pan atop the stove and turned off the all-too-contemporary oven. The sight of the terror of Whoville, a master criminal, in an apron taking a fresh cake from the oven like a housewife was comical, but nothing out of range for the Grinch. The cake made you curious, so, of course, you had to walk over to him. From this new angle, you could see his little table which was now underneath excess cake ingredients. 

"Something tells me you already know a thing or two about real food. What's all this?" a force pushed you to inquire. 

“It's nothing," he said hastily, putting his mitts behind his back, "not a thing you need to be worried about." You looked down at his girly apron and back up at his rugged old mug. "Seriously! Haven't you ever seen a world class chef before? I'm practicing my skills for one of those cooking shows," he fibbed. "You need the right attire and everything!"

"Cooking shows?" you began to pry, doubting his intentions. You leaned forward and a little to the left to set your eyes on the cake behind him. 

"Yes, of course," he said "cooking shows…" You walked closer to look at the cake. It was a regular old round vanilla cake. It didn't look bad, but it was nothing to write home about. This was not something anyone would have you bake for a show or contest, you thought.

"Sure looks good," you said. "Didn't know you enjoyed sweets."

"Even a nasty old Grinch can have a sweet tooth," he insisted. This didn't explain what he was truly baking for, though.

"So is this all you're doing today? Just this cake?" you asked.

The Grinch removed his mitts and his apron and hung them all on a standing coat hook with the mitts sticking straight up out of the hook's shape. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he replied, slipping into his thin robe once again.

"I just got here!" 

“That’s wonderful; why don’t you see your way out?” he insisted. Stunned, you flashed a dumbfounded grin of disbelief. You stood making eye contact for a moment. He didn’t take the effort to remove you himself, and he truly must not have minded your visit. So many pauses, you thought. The Grinch did not ramble much today. 

“Is there something on your mind?” you asked impulsively, not expecting the half honest response he gave.

“I suppose I can tell you about the cake,” he said looking much less angered and much more distraught through half lidded eyes, “but I’m much more interested in these gifts you have for me.” A smile crept onto his ruggy face as he leaned towards you and began to reach directly to your bag. The top was already undone and it almost seemed as though he would reach right in without invitation. This made you slightly nervous, and you were almost tempted to just let him take your bag from you, even though you had no way of knowing he ever really had his mind set out to do so. Your hand reached the trim of the bag before his. You looked down at your tote and rummaged around, leaving the small cookbook to the side. You picked out a small jar of what looked like something dead, but in actuality was a little potpourri mixture you had put together yourself. To the Grinch, this was yet another unnecessary thing. “What in the hell is that?" he remarked in surprise. He shot back into an upright posture before leaning in and looking closer again. "Why, it almost looks like garbage. You brought me garbage!" he proclaimed with a wide grin, confident as could be. "No use keeping it in a jar like that, my dear!" he asserted.

"No, no, Mr. Grinch!" you began to correct him but his hand was already on the jar. He snatched it from you, but he did not open it. He raised an eyebrow at the holes in the lid. “It’s a potpourri. It usually smells a bit dingy in here. I didn’t know you had taken care of that,” you explained, alluding to the smell of the cake, “but it’s supposed to smell good. It’s made of dried things, so I thought that might be up your alley.” 

“This doesn’t look like a soup,” groaned the Grinch. Fuzzy green fingers held the jar up to be seen. He inspected the jar closely. It was filled almost to the very top with crispy leaves, cinnamon sticks, pinecones, and paper thin dried apple slices. He moved the jar just below his nose and sniffed intensely. He began to speak between sniffs, “It’s,” sniff, “like an,” sniff, “apple pie.” His words trailed off in a voice of revelation. You nodded excitedly and smiled with your teeth. His curiosity soon turned to his usual distasteful expression. You were worried until he made a verbal conclusion; “It’s no garbage scent, but it fits right in!”

“The recipe is in the book,” you handed the book over too, “but you can make your own with whatever you want! You can always reuse the jar.”

Your green fellow looked at the book and then at the jar. To you, it seemed he wasn’t quite sure what to make of such a gift. This, as you stated, was a token of appreciation. It wasn’t for anything in particular that he had done. Your gift came from a place of admiration and respect, and in a way that was almost awkward, the Grinch wondered if returning those same feelings was obligatory. His mind could not understand why someone who he had not lied to, schemed, or defeated would go out of their way to offer something based on his genuine interests. Puzzled, the Grinch cooed, “Thank you, [Y/N].”

“It’s no problem, sir,” you reassured him. 

He walked over to his crowded nightstand where he wiggled the jar into place between his telephone and miscellaneous junk. Without a place to put it, he slipped the cookbook under his pillow in an adorable fashion that suggested he might read about cooking or the scents of dried fruits in his night hours. When he returned to you, his face was relaxed in a manner that seemed renewed. 

“Can I hear about the cake now?” you blurted, closing the gold clamp on your bag. “You said you would tell me.”

The Grinch let out a long relaxed sigh tinged with disappointment. “Well,” he slid a hand along his face which made him appear visually humbled. He softly closed his eyelids and rubbed the bridge of his muzzle above gritted teeth. You looked eagerly onward as he relaxed himself before answering. “I wanted to maybe,” he hesitated, “practice my own form of gift giving,” and he winced at his words, “so I baked you a cake.”

Touched, you weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry. You felt tears well up in your eyes. “I-Oh, Mr. Grinch…”

“Oh, no, no, no, don’t cry! We can’t have that!” he pleaded. He sounded more concerned than you had heard him before. He shook like a leaf in the wind trying to figure out what exactly would calm you. He put a hand out, stumbled back, and went for a hug, stopping himself and quickly pulling himself back before he could do so. Secretly, you wished he had embraced you right then. You, too, were nervous. Unsure of how to respond, you also shook. You thought for a moment about how someone so menacing tried something new in an effort to practice kindness. You didn’t quite know whether this kindness was specific to you or if you were just his first step into generosity, but it touched you just the same. It was similar to the way you knew he didn’t like to be around crying people or new situations, not necessarily that he cared for your feelings. 

The crying concern was defogged upon his next actions. He grabbed your face in his hairy hands and wiped your eyes with his long thumbs. His fingers rested gently along your jaw. The lump in your throat hardened next to the Grinch’s green fingertips tickling your neck. His eyes drooped as if he, too, might weep. “I wanted to decorate it, but I didn’t have the time.”

You dove forward, drawing the Grinch’s gently placed hands away from your face. Then, with you in his embrace, he set his face against your head and began to tear up. “We can decorate it together,” you said. 

Suddenly he was content. All that mattered to you in that moment was his happiness. He had learned so much since he left his old ways, and you loved to see him happy and thriving. To share such a vulnerable moment with him felt special. You felt pride in this budding relationship. By the time he removed his arms from your sides, you were already missing his hold on you. He put one hand on your cheek for a small moment and said, “Come on, let’s do that.”

You shifted your weight back to your feet, and the Grinch turned his attention to the cake on the stove. He made his way back behind his table to what you were sure he deemed an organized mess and pulled out flat spatulas and cups of icing, cold, as if they had been refrigerated all this time. Sitting low in a cave has the same effect. He handed you one of the rubber spatulas and a cup of chocolate icing. The two of you spread the icing over the round spongy cake which was ever so slightly crisped on the edges. The two of you didn't make much eye contact nor exchange any meaningful dialogue. Small banter about who could spread the smoothest was all that was said. You were afraid that if you were to look directly at him, the Grinch would become aware of the situation again and become flushed. He let you pick from the excess of toppings he had collected for you, which included sprinkles, candies, crushed cookies, and whipped cream. Once your cake was perfect and complete, you thought you ought to go home before the mountain's chill became too much. With your bag in one hand and a container of the most perfect cake you could imagine in the other, you headed for the door. 

"I must get going," you announced. "It would be much too cold to travel later in the night."

"You should just stay here," the Grinch retorted under his breath. These words, which felt so foreign in the Grinch’s mouth, made you turn towards him. There was no way that the same man who nearly sent you back on your way home over the embarrassment of gift giving would offer you to stay the night. "I mean," he stammered, "safe travels."

But you didn't turn back towards the door. Instead, you walked back to his table where you had worked together on your cake, where he was now sitting, and placed your cake dish upon it. Looking at him in disbelief, you felt an untamed uneasiness inside yourself. You didn't have to be so calculated, but you just weren't sure what to say. He reiterated his stance. "Bundle up and stuff. Get out of here."

You then sat down in a rickety chair across from him and his eyes met yours. "I suppose it is going to be quite chilly out there, and you do have a long way to go." He tugged at your coat collar in an attempt to lift it up. When it didn't stand, his fingers trailed on the material beneath it and drifted from your nape. It didn't take long to hear the words you were hoping for in a low breathy voice. "You can stay if you'd like." 

"You really mean that?" you gasped.

"Yes. Make yourself at home. Just don't get handsy with my things."

In the end, you spent the night at the Grinch's lair. This night, you had conversations with him that for sure, you thought, did not match the perception that local anecdotes had given you of a green menace. Rather than that, you spent time with a kind caring man newly pleased by potpourri. 

_"Mr. Grinch, I have a question."_

_"And what would that be, [Y/N]?"_

_"Where did you get so many cake ingredients?"_

_The front door swung open with a creak. Max entered dragging a large canvas grocery tote overflowing with boxes of cake mix and goodies._


End file.
